That Black Kind of Love
(for Leroy and Pearlee)
By RaShell R. Smith-Spears
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama.
He called her “Black Gal,”
and every time, his voice dipped like a man
who owned oyster farms and diamond mines no one knew about.
He didn’t love ribbons of golden hair tied in
bonny blue bows that strangle your neck
with the ideal of their beauty.
He loved his Black Gal
whom others called Pearl, like a quiet lady with white gloves and small talk.
But her mouth refused to form words in polite shapes that ill-fit her curvy and brash Black woman style.
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama
when they only had one green bill and two quarters
to wrap around their future, holding in faith and hope
when Depression clawed at everyone’s house
like a ravaging, hungry bear.
He loved his Black Gal
smack in the face of white Mr. Crow
just so he knew his segregation toilets and worn-down schools
was not a setting that would disrupt their story.
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama.
His affection framed their American dream,
a picture of farm-worked hands holding soft toddler fingers, their new Future standing on stacks of books and ancestors’ shoulders.
And each night, the moon rose over their Together.
He loved his Black Gal
whose mother-love prepared feasts of wisdom, bravery, and teacakes,
whose fingers sewed godly threads through quilts that warmed and colored
the spirit life of their children.
Because my Big Daddy loved my Big Mama
I can believe the dip in my man’s voice when he caresses my name;
I trust the hope of his whisper touch across my bronzed skin;
I understand his shoulder tightness at the end of a day-journey into the world;
I share his vision of a Together that blooms into the tomorrow after tomorrow.
(for Leroy and Pearlee)
By RaShell R. Smith-Spears
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama.
He called her “Black Gal,”
and every time, his voice dipped like a man
who owned oyster farms and diamond mines no one knew about.
He didn’t love ribbons of golden hair tied in
bonny blue bows that strangle your neck
with the ideal of their beauty.
He loved his Black Gal
whom others called Pearl, like a quiet lady with white gloves and small talk.
But her mouth refused to form words in polite shapes that ill-fit her curvy and brash Black woman style.
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama
when they only had one green bill and two quarters
to wrap around their future, holding in faith and hope
when Depression clawed at everyone’s house
like a ravaging, hungry bear.
He loved his Black Gal
smack in the face of white Mr. Crow
just so he knew his segregation toilets and worn-down schools
was not a setting that would disrupt their story.
My Big Daddy loved my Big Mama.
His affection framed their American dream,
a picture of farm-worked hands holding soft toddler fingers, their new Future standing on stacks of books and ancestors’ shoulders.
And each night, the moon rose over their Together.
He loved his Black Gal
whose mother-love prepared feasts of wisdom, bravery, and teacakes,
whose fingers sewed godly threads through quilts that warmed and colored
the spirit life of their children.
Because my Big Daddy loved my Big Mama
I can believe the dip in my man’s voice when he caresses my name;
I trust the hope of his whisper touch across my bronzed skin;
I understand his shoulder tightness at the end of a day-journey into the world;
I share his vision of a Together that blooms into the tomorrow after tomorrow.
|
|